


Scotch On Ice

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Actor RPF, Always Be My Maybe (2019), American (US) Actor RPF, John Wick (Movies), Keanu Reeves - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Biting, F/M, The C-Word, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: PROMPT: As warned, a new prompt. Something different. You’ve so thoughtfully already completed step 1, and you didn’t even know it. 1. Watch Always Be My Maybe ✔️ 2. Keanu Reeves 3. Suit and tie (on him, not the floor, please) 4. Single malt scotch on ice 5. Biting





	Scotch On Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brrose/gifts).



He’s there – in the tufted leather armchair, watching, carelessly swirling his crystal rocks glass, prompting the single, perfectly shaped ice cube to swim like a water ballerina in the golden liquid. 

You long ago dimmed the lights, but you can see his dark gaze, holding you, pinning you in place. You can feel it, hard and pressing. 

He’s still in his suit and tie. He always looks like he just walked off a page from GQ, even in a ratty t-shirt and out-of-style jeans. He’s always so cool.

“Come here,” he says, clear as a bell, and you’re his dog.

You’re in front of him, then, nothing but a hair’s breadth between your knees and his. Will he tell you to strip? To kneel? To swallow his cock? You’re breathless as you wait.

“Take your top off,” he says. “Slowly.”

Everything is slow with him, savoring, unhurried. He takes his time and yours, stretching and stringing expectations, desires, linking together your thoughts and feelings, sensations, all into one long chain of nirvana.

You drop your top to the floor and the commands steadily roll from his Scotch-laden tongue. Each article of clothing, one piece at a time, is to be stripped away until you’re bare, vibrating, cool, and wanting before him.

He sips the last of his drink, holds it in his mouth as he holds your gaze. You watch his mouth work, his tongue soaking in the malt before he finally, deliberately swallows it down. He sets the glass aside then beckons you.

“Knees on either side of my hips,” he says, and you move. “But don’t sit. I want you kneeling over me.”

You obey, even as your legs shake. Your knees and shins quietly squeak the soft leather. You still and draw a breath.

And then his hands are on you. He squeezes your hips, slides his hands up your waist, over your ribcage and cups your breasts. Then he’s pulling your nipples between thumbs and fingers, twisting.

You hiss and arch into him.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” he asks.

You gasp and nod.

“Look at me,” he says.

You didn’t realize you’d closed your eyes, already lost in the moment.

You open your eyes and he’s dragging his palms down your torso over the curve of your belly. He grips one thigh in his hand, holding you in place – more of a reminder that he’s in charge than an act – and uses the other to push one, long middle finger inside you.

“How?” he asks, his ring finger joining his middle, stretching you, twisting in your mess of a cunt. “How do you want me to hurt you?”

You breathe, _feel_ , let him stretch you open. You want so much to grind down on his hand, but that could earn you the kind of pain you won’t like. So you stay still and answer.

“Your teeth,” you say.

“My teeth,” he echoes. “What about them?”

Your breath stutters as he thrusts his fingers harder. Each intro is more measured and punishing than the last. His knuckles slam and grind into the slick, puffy flesh outside your cunt and his thumb digs into your clit.

You exhale, take it, balance your fingers on the arms of the chair so as not to lose stability. “In my skin, my throat,” you answer.

Your breathing is labored, lungs burning. Your cunt is a squelching, swollen mess. It’s always a marathon with him.

“Brace your hands on the back of the chair,” he says, and you lean forward.

He uses one smooth hand to wrap your hair around his wrist and fist, pulls and twists until you feel his hot, sweet breath against your skin.

“Do you like my hand in your sloppy cunt?” he asks, voice clear and calm in your ear.

You nod, panting, the apex of your thighs being pounded to bruising and tenderness. “I love it, sir,” you answer, knowing he wants your words – especially when it’s made difficult for you to speak from lack of breath and clear though.

He nuzzles into your neck, such a stark juxtaposition to the brutality his hands, his fists have wrought. Then his teeth scrape, light but persistent over your pulse. His tongue darts out to soothe the path left behind as his teeth increase in pressure, graduating to the point of most certainly leaving marks.

He hums and curls his fingers inside you, starts to rotate his thumb over your clit. After such intense pressure, it’s like the skies are parting for the sun. And then his teeth sink into the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, and you scream.

You come, clamping around his fingers, spraying his crisp, black suit, sweating and undulating, sobbing.

Your arms ache, your body vibrates, as he stands, wraps your legs around his waist and walks to the bed, where he drops you on the edge.

“You got my suit all wet,” he says, yanking at his tie. “What’re we going to do about that?”

You can only imagine as your body tenses once more toward another long-game finish.


End file.
